by Erika Vanzin
“How many times have you heard it?” I ask him when the expression on his face looks halfway between amused and desperate.
“Let’s just say I’ve never had more bass tracks than an entire fifteen-song album,” Arthur replies diplomatically before returning to focus on my friend on the other side of the glass.
“Simon ordered a whole truck of new bonsai plants just to relax after Damian slaughtered him with this song,” I laugh with Lilly and Arthur.
When you record an album, the various tracks are usually done separately: vocals, bass, guitar, and drums. Everyone does their part, and then the multiple tracks are mixed together, cleaned up, enriched with effects, if necessary, and perfected to create the song that will then be recorded on the album, the one that everyone will eventually listen to. Each track can be recorded multiple times, so you get the best possible result. When you work with Damian, this process can be murder. I don’t think I’ve ever met more of a perfectionist than he is. Simon wasn’t able to play the bass part Damian had in mind and he made us stay in the studio late into the night for weeks. One day Simon didn’t show up at the studio, and Evan, our manager, told us that he had been spending time in Connecticut, relaxing before he ended up in jail for murder. Simon, the man who has the patience of a saint, ran away so as not to kill my best friend. Michael and I probably would have helped him hide the body.
“Should I get out of here before he makes me do the chorus again?” I ask worriedly.
“Don’t even joke like that!” Lilly threatens me before she gets back to work.
When she goes back to what she was doing, and on the other side of the glass Damian keeps recording, I open my laptop and do something I’ve never done in my life. I type in the Google search field ‘Iris’ and ‘redhead.’ I don’t even know if that’s her name or if the bag she was wearing belonged to a little sister or a friend. I don’t even know why I’m looking for an excuse to tell myself, maybe because I realize that I look like a crazy maniac.
The number of photos that appear on the screen is overwhelming—from flowers to women dressed in skimpy clothes—so I narrow the research with keywords like ‘New York,’ realizing that I know so little about her that I could put in completely different terms and receive the same results.
“Are you looking for an escort?” Damian’s voice behind me almost blows me off the chair.
When I turn around, he’s smiling like an idiot and my heart is pumping hard in my chest. He caught me like a kid watching porn. When the hell did he get out of that room? I was so focused I didn’t even realize it.
“No, are you kidding?” My lack of explanation makes me appear even more guilty, and Lilly gets up from her seat and leans behind Damian’s big shoulders to snoop. I feel like a kid getting caught sneaking on the internet with his father’s password.
“You’re looking for ‘Iris’ and ‘redhead.’ You must have a great explanation that I can’t wait to hear,” my friend teases me with a raised eyebrow. Lilly is quivering with curiosity next to him, and I can’t avoid explaining what happened yesterday afternoon.
“What the hell was she doing on a fire escape?” Damian’s expression is both perplexed and amused.
“I don’t know...she didn’t say,” I confess with embarrassment.
“And her name is Iris?” asks Lilly.
I feel like a kid getting questioned in class. “I assume so. It was written on her bag.”
“Didn’t you even ask what her name was?” Damian is increasingly amused.
“I asked for her name and number, but she was very good at glossing over the answer.” I’m a little nervous.
“And does your butt hurt from the fall? Is that why you’ve been sitting all wrong in that chair since this morning?” asks Lilly, giggling.
“I knew if I told you, you’d make fun of me. I’m going to go get a coffee while you keep squealing behind me.” I wink at her and leave the room before the embarrassment makes me blush, giving them one more reason to keep it up.
*
I’ve been sitting at one of the tables for a few minutes when Lilly comes in and, seeing me, orders a coffee and sits next to me.
“Are you offended by our teasing?” she asks bluntly.
“No, I don’t know. Not that I’m offended, but... For Christ’s sake, I don’t even know,” I confess.
Lilly smiles and sips some of her coffee. “When you told us that the right woman had to fall into your arms, I didn’t think you meant it literally,” she says, trying to play it down.
I burst out laughing, covering my mouth to avoid attention from the few customers inside this small cafe. I like this place because it’s intimate, nestled between rows of offices that no one knows about. It’s not the usual tourist trap you find in Manhattan; here I can relax without putting a thousand layers of clothes on to hide.
“Now let’s not overdo it. She’s not the woman of my life.”
“But she intrigues you. I’ve never seen you so fascinated by a woman.”
It’s not an accusation, just a simple observation that points out evidence I have decided to ignore. “I don’t know. I do think it’s different this time, but not because she’s different. I don’t know her enough to tell if that’s the case. But she’s one of the rare women who didn’t ask me about Damian, who seemed really interested in what I had to say. For the first time in a long time, I was just Thomas Simons, drummer of the Jailbirds and not ‘The Drummer of Damian’s Band.’ She caught my attention because of it. Does that make sense, or do I sound like a fool?”
“She didn’t ask you about Damian. I already like this Iris.”
I look her in the eye, and she’s smiling. The first time I met her, I thought she was just a kid full of insecurities. Instead, I found a true friend. Not just because she’s my best friend’s girlfriend, but because I feel comfortable with Lilly.
“Thomas, I must congratulate you. You have officially become an adult. You got your act together,” she announces solemnly.
I bump shoulders with her slightly. “Do you know you’re more idiotic than Damian sometimes?”
“That’s why we’re so good together.”
I smile and shake my head. These two will drive me crazy.
“Seriously, maybe this girl got your attention because she doesn’t treat you like a superstar. The way you described her, she seems like a smart girl, not jumping on you as soon as she recognized you. Maybe that’s what enthralls you about her.”
“That doesn’t justify me being glued to the internet like a maniac looking for her.”
“Or maybe you’re just helping fate since they’re the only clues you have, and it’s not that easy to find someone in a city like New York. She could be anywhere.”
Lilly’s words don’t help me. Knowing the chances of us meeting again by accident are so slim shatters all my hopes. What disturbs me, however, is precisely the fact that I’m hoping for it. I haven’t invested so much energy in someone since I was a teenager. At the time, I didn’t understand anything.
“I don’t believe in destiny,” I reply. “I believe that life is just a series of choices and consequences.”
“Please, don’t abandon your cynicism. You might actually become a human being capable of loving!” Lilly teases, raising her hands as a sign of surrender.
I like how straightforward she is. Daily, it amazes me how she can stand all our bullshit without falling for a second for the moronic things we say. She must really be a saint, or she’s crazier than all of us together.
“A couple of years in this business, and you’ll see—you’re going to agree with me,” I chuckle as I finish my coffee.
“Probably, but I’ll never admit it. I’d rather tear my vocal cords apart than give you the satisfaction,” she says, rising.
I laugh heartily and follow her out of the cafe and onto Manhattan’s busy street
s. “Do you think Damian is finished laughing at what I told you two?”
Lilly looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Do you know Damian? Do you think it’s possible that he could let go of something like this? He’s probably already called Michael and Simon to tell them the details, adding some of his own, and they’ll all make fun of you until you’re old.”
Her words confirm my fears. I’ve known these guys all my life, they’ll never miss an opportunity like this, and I laugh a little because I would do precisely the same if I were in their situation. I open the back door to the recording studio and let Lilly in before following her. It’s going to be a long day.
I reluctantly wake up when Dexter begins to tap my face with his paw, meowing as if I haven’t fed him in weeks. I look at the clock. It’s only five-thirty.
“I hope you’ve finished every single piece of dry food inside your bowl, or I swear this time I’ll use your tail as a candle wick.”
The meow of protest is more of a mockery than a real moan of terror at my vain threats. I could never lay a finger on him, and he takes advantage of it by waking me up at impossible times and making me do whatever he wants. I’ve never accepted anyone running my life or giving me orders, and here I am, succumbing to a cat I love who doesn’t reciprocate. He is the only male who commands me simply by putting his nose to my face and rubbing himself, giving me some love, five minutes at a time, one day a month, only during leap years. And I’m cleaning his litter box morning and night.
I put the dry food in the bowl, which, as I already knew, is full on the sides but empty in the middle. I give Dexter the stink eye, but he looks at me with those huge, sweet eyes that make me speechless.
“Betrayer,” I whisper as I put water inside the coffee machine and half the amount of usual coffee, since I don’t have much left and I have to survive until the next time I get paid.
I turn on my laptop while I wait for it to brew, scrolling through email alerts about famous people in New York, and immediately notice that today’s hot news is about the Jailbirds. A week ago, they launched a new competition for their fans, and the winners will get to listen to the three unreleased songs from their upcoming album. Officially, the first release date is next week, but the luckiest fans on earth were airlifted, first-class, and put up in one of New York’s most luxurious hotels to listen to the three songs this morning.
I confess that I enrolled in that contest, so I could have written the review today on my blog, but my luck ran out two weeks ago when I swooped into Thomas’ arms. I’ve never been a finalist for any competition, let alone win one. The embarrassing thing, though, is that I’m not entirely sure I enrolled in that contest for the review or because I was hoping to see Thomas and his blue eyes again. Since bumping into him, he has become my obsession, awakening the sixteen-year-old in me, fantasies included. He brought to life again that crush that I had long dismissed as irrational and typical of teenagers who fall in love with their idols. I’ll really start to worry when I start sticking the band’s posters on my walls.
I decide to show up in front of the record company building, regardless. There will undoubtedly be a lot of photographers there. It’s one of those classic over-advertised events, with a final press conference included, almost an official invitation for the paparazzi in the area. I’ll take some pictures of the winners, who will have their five minutes of fame. I’ll try and take a few shots of the Jailbirds, and then I’ll go home and continue my life as usual: looking for the unlucky star to be photographed in some awkward situation.
When the coffee machine starts bubbling and the glass carafe is filled, I pour a cup. I’d like to add some creamer, but I remember finishing it a few days ago. Dexter climbs to the kitchen counter, smells my mug, and looks at me disgusted.
“You better save the dry food in your bowl because we’re poor, and we need to ration.” Not that I’ve ever left my cat without food, but lately, I can’t afford to buy him too many of the treats that he loves so much.
I go back to my computer and take advantage of the early morning to finish a manual for one of my older clients. Their company produces cardboard packaging and needs to update internal manuals for employees at least a couple of times a year. It’s a job I hate—it’s boring and requires a massive effort of concentration, but they pay a few hundred dollars for a few hours of work, so every time they call, I accept without thinking twice.
“Admit it, you woke me up so early because you knew I had to finish this document today.”
Dexter meows as he rubs his nose against the corner of my laptop.
“You’re afraid to be left without food, aren’t you?” I almost challenge him with half a smile.
I have so few friends, beyond Emily, that often, the only conversations I have during the day are with my cat, and I’m not even sure he pays attention to what I say. In fact, he turns around, shows me his backside, and jumps from the coffee table to go to snuggle between the sheets.
*
As I predicted, the mob of photographers in front of the record company is impressive. I’m surprised the police aren’t already here to get us out of the way of traffic. With all the tourists in New York City during this festive time, a gathering like this is immediately kept an eye on by law enforcement to prevent someone ending up under a car. The barricades have already been placed, confirming that all this staging has been prepared for some time. There’s even a banner with the record company’s logo, sponsors, and a couple of big clothing brands, so winners can take selfies in front of it and post their photos on Instagram. I’m surprised they haven’t thought of a hashtag for the occasion. I should write to their press office and remind them of the basic rules of marketing.
“Hi Jack, how are you doing? How is Annabelle?”
Jack is a married man of over sixty with two grown children. At night, he works in a warehouse as a security guard, and during the day, he sleeps a few hours and then hangs out on the streets of New York to be a paparazzo. We often find ourselves at events like this, and, over time, I have gotten to know him better. Not that it’s his greatest aspiration to be out here photographing celebrities, but his wife Annabelle fell ill with cancer a few years ago, and to cover the expenses the insurance company refused to pay, he had to find a second job.
I first met him in front of a barricade, alone, looking like a lost puppy. I felt so bad for him, I introduced him to my narrow circle of trusted colleagues. There are so many places to cover, to take good shots, that we come together in small groups and divide into different areas. We let the others know when we spot a celebrity. Working alone becomes too complicated and expensive, in terms of energy and money, to think about surviving doing this job. Jack wouldn’t go far, so I tried to teach him as quickly as possible how to move. Over time, he’s become something like a friend.
“Baby Doll! What a pleasure to see you here. Annabelle’s fine. I took her for her check-up last week, and the cancer still doesn’t show up. It’s been two years now.” He tells me this with the happiness that only a person who has risked losing what is dearest in life can have. Now he can devote himself with less concern to paying off the debts that her illness incurred.
“I’m so glad! One of these days, I’ll come by and bring her that lemon cake Emily makes that she likes so much.” I’m barely able to tell him this before being swallowed up by the noise and turmoil rising among us. Apparently, a limousine with the lucky winners inside has just stopped in front of the red carpet and is letting the occupants out; they’re mostly teenage girls dressed like they’re at the Oscars, their phones ready in hand to document every single second. This event is more fake than my worst expectations. I imagined it would be a waste of time, but I didn’t think they would arrange something so far from the authentic, almost rough, image of the Jailbirds.
I take some photos; the kids parade practically all in a group. Within five minutes, the show is over, and it
is clear the Jailbirds will never walk this carpet. They are already inside enjoying the show from some window upstairs.
“Quick and painless,” Jack laughs as we move away from the mob.
I already know this morning’s shots are entirely useless. No newspaper will pay for an agency picture when you just have to be here with a cellphone or fish from the winning kids’ social networks to find better photos than ours. It was still worth a try. If, out of a hundred tries, ninety-nine are bad, but one gives you the shot of the century, it will always be worth it.
“At least you can go home and spend some time with Annabelle. Did you sleep a few hours last night?” I ask him worriedly, taking in the deep, dark circles around his eyes and his hollowed-out face.
Jack smiles softly and rests his hand on my shoulder, and then pulls me into a hug. “We’re fine, Baby Doll, don’t worry, okay?”
I nod and watch him walk away to the nearest subway stop, among pedestrians who bump him without caring for the expensive camera inside his crossbody bag. They’re oblivious to the fact that this is actually one of his livelihoods and the reason Annabelle is still alive. I’d like to shout at them to be careful, not to break it.
I enter one of the alleys behind the record company, an area of Manhattan where you can breathe a little more, far from tourists. The difference between visitors and people working here, in the center of the world, is all in the walking. Tourists stroll, looking around with their noses up among the enormous skyscrapers, stopping suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk to look at the map on their cell phones or take a picture. The festively decorated shop windows create annoying traffic jams, with everyone stopping to immortalize the engineering masterpieces that fly the reindeer of Santa’s sleigh or run trains laden with presents inside fake tunnels, artificial snow descending at an almost hypnotic pace.
The people who live and work in Manhattan, on the other hand, walk fast without ever turning around, looking at people in front of them, unconsciously calculating trajectories and traffic light times. Months of trampling the same sidewalk make them experts on the subway-office journey, where even a single second can change the entire working day. If you have a job in this city, among these skyscrapers, they expect you to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. You can never pull the plug, and even that miserable minute between the subway car and the office is a minute you could use to do something constructive. Whether it’s Christmas, New Year’s Eve, or the middle of summer, the people who work here don’t care how beautiful and magical this city is. They don’t have the time.
